


Nails and Wounds

by days_of_storm



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drama, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Possibly Pre-Slash, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 14:25:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days_of_storm/pseuds/days_of_storm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is the second chapter of the birthday fic for Verity Burns. It appears that I can only write fluff these days XD</p><p>Big hugs to you, Verity!! xxx</p>
        </blockquote>





	1. Nails

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verityburns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verityburns/gifts).



Chapter One  
  
John was already out of breath when he turned the corner and felt himself ripped back in mid run. The air left his lungs and he stumbled backwards, feeling a sharp pain in his fingers as his nails scraped down the brick stone wall as he fell. Sherlock had run past him before he hit the ground.  
  
The crack and whizzing noise John heard hit him like an invisible punch and he scrambled to his feet and turned that corner once more. “Sherlock?  
  
Sherlock knelt in front of an unconscious man, a nail gun a few feet away from both. There was blood on the unconscious man’s temple, and John gathered that Sherlock had managed to hurt him with his own weapon. Relief flooded through him and John leaned against the wall to catch his breath. “Sherlock. How did you manage to get so close to him so quickly?”  
  
Sherlock lifted his chin but didn’t turn around. John blinked and wondered briefly why Sherlock was still kneeling there. He wasn’t looking at the man and his breathing wasn’t as heavy as his own. “I ran at him.”  
  
John pushed himself away from the wall, his phone in hand. He dialled 999 even before he asked the next question. “Are you hurt?”  
  
“Possibly.” Sherlock phone clattered to the ground and Sherlock bent forward, having to support his weight with his arm to hold himself up.  
  
“Jesus, Sherlock.” John picked up the nail gun and placed it behind him on the ground before he crouched down next to Sherlock. “Turn, if you can.”  
  
Sherlock looked up, and for a moment John could see that he felt guilty, but then he just grew paler and there was no denying that he was in pain. John pulled his coat away from his chest and gasped. Two inches of steel poked out of Sherlock’s shirt which was already soaked with blood. It shouldn’t bleed that much, John thought. The nail should hold the blood in, why is it bleeding so much?  
  
“Lie down, Sherlock.” He moved to kneel behind him and helped Sherlock to lie down, pillowing his head on his scarf. Just when John picked up the nail gun to examine it, the man across from them stirred. A second later John gaped at the gun in his own hand which was trained on the man’s head.  
  
“Move and I’ll shoot.”  
  
“Police are on …” Sherlock gasped, looking green now. John hoped he wouldn’t have to throw up now. He also knew that he couldn’t help Sherlock while the other man slowly recovered from the blow Sherlock had dealt him.  
  
“Lead,” the man grinned and he pushed himself up into a sitting position. “The tip is brittle lead.”  
  
John couldn’t remember feeling that much hate for a single individual in his life.  
  
“Shut up,” he shouted, feeling his finger twitch. He needed to remain calm, for Sherlock’s sake. It wouldn’t do to shoot the man in the face while Sherlock slowly bled to death.  
  
“Sherlock, stay with me. Keep your eyes open, okay?” He could see how hard Sherlock was fighting.  
  
“John!” Sherlock whispered and tried to grab his arm, but he missed and his hand hit the ground. John exhaled slowly, took his finger away from the trigger and carefully took Sherlock’s hand in his. He pushed his fingers up so that he could feel his pulse on his wrist. It was there, but it was too weak for him to trust that Sherlock would hold out until the ambulance arrived.  
  
“I will kill you if you so much as move,” he said to the man who slowly tried to get to his feet. He sat down again, and John wished nothing more than to wipe that smug expression from off his face. For a few seconds he just sat there, fighting with himself whether he could just let the man get away, and possibly hurt them worse than he already had and try to stop Sherlock’s bleeding or whether he should trust that the ambulance would arrive quickly enough to take care of Sherlock. A small moan from Sherlock decided for him and John knelt on the nail gun and turned to Sherlock. The shooter, just as he had expected, was up in a second and ran down the alley.  
  
“Sherlock,” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand and then let go, leaning over him to start unbuttoning his shirt. He felt terrible for being unable to decide what to do, but being faced with an injured Sherlock had somehow caught him off guard so that he was unable to detach himself from the situation like he normally would. Now he feared that he had lost valuable seconds. If the nail really had splintered inside Sherlock, it would be extremely dangerous to move him, or even to put pressure on the wound. The nail needed to remain where it was, but blood was still seeping out of the wound. His hands started shaking when he realised that he couldn’t do anything while the nail was where it was, and he wanted to scream. Instead he took Sherlock’s hand again. “Stay with me, please. Sherlock, stay with me.”  
  
When the ambulance came, Sherlock had become unconscious, though John still felt his pulse. The trip to the hospital felt much longer than it had any right to. John remembered shrapnel wounds, and the many deaths he’d witnessed when he couldn’t do anything other than try to remove the pieces of bombs, bullets and grenades, which more often than not resulted in internal bleeding which caused heart failure before they had even opened them up to have a look.  
  
The police had arrived just after the ambulance and John had pointed to the nail gun and explained that the culprit had disappeared down the lane. He couldn’t remember what had been said, but he found himself in the ambulance with Sherlock and two doctors who spoke very little.  
  
****  
  
Sherlock groaned at the bright light in his hospital room. Then he groaned again when he tried to turn his head away from it. John stood in the door, his hands behind his back, sleep still in his eyes.  
  
He had spent the night in the relatively uncomfortable waiting area, drinking too much tea after the news that the four hour long surgery had been successful. Eventually he had fallen into a fitful sleep sitting up, too exhausted to care.  
  
Then he had been woken up just a few minutes ago with the news that Sherlock was about to wake up. He was still in intensive care, but he would be moved after a few days if things improved as they anticipated. Only now John wondered why he was even allowed in the room. Yes, he was Sherlock’s doctor, occasionally, but officially he wouldn’t have been allowed to see him without Sherlock’s permission.  
  
“Why am I here?” he asked, feeling like an idiot even as he said it.  
  
Sherlock blinked a few times, trying to focus on John’s face.  
  
“Come,” Sherlock’s voice was only a whisper, but John heard it over the beeping machines.  
John closed the door behind him and stood next to Sherlock’s bed, his eyes desperately trying to focus on Sherlock’s face and not his chest, on which a large white patch covered the fresh scar. Just then he noticed how much it hurt him to know that Sherlock would have a scar on his chest now.  
  
“I’m so sorry.” He said, knowing that Sherlock would wonder about it later. But not now; now he just needed to wake up properly.  
  
“It’s in my file,” Sherlock answered, belatedly.  
  
“What?” John took the glass of water next to Sherlock’s head and Sherlock nodded. “Am I allowed to move you?”  
  
Sherlock’s face expressed that he didn’t know and didn’t care, so John raised the upper part of the bed so that Sherlock could drink.  
  
Once he had swallowed a few sips and made a face which betrayed the pain he was in, Sherlock inhaled deeply and cleared his throat. “You’re in my file. I put you there.”  
  
“But I’m not family,” John murmured, wondering why Mycroft or Sherlock’s parents weren’t the first ones to be notified.  
  
Sherlock’s face was unreadable, but then he allowed himself a half smile. “Imagine how I would feel if Mycroft showed up here. I’d rather be dead, thank you very much.”  
  
John couldn’t help but grin. “How do you feel?”  
  
“Alive.”  
  
“You had a nail in your chest. They also picked thirty-four lead splinters out of you.”  
  
“I remember.” Sherlock suddenly tried to push himself up further. “Are you alright?”  
  
“Hush, Sherlock, calm down. I’m fine. Unhurt. No nails in my chest.”  
  
“Thank God,” Sherlock closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. “I underestimated him. I thought he would only threaten me with it but I guess running right into him wasn’t such a good idea after all.”  
  
John smiled and sat down on the chair next to the bed. “Not really, no.”  
  
“Did they catch him?”  
  
“I don’t know. I haven’t really talked to the police.”  
  
“You look terrible,” Sherlock smiled through the pain.  
  
John snorted. “Looking like shit yourself,” he tried to smile but couldn’t really. Sherlock lifted his hand and gingerly poked at his own chest. John could see the colour drain from his face.  
  
“Idiot,” he remarked, hoping that Sherlock would be sufficiently distracted to recover from the burning sensation his touch must have left on his fresh scar. John reached out and pulled Sherlock’s hand from his chest, his knuckles brushing his cool skin, noticing for the first time since he had entered the room that Sherlock wasn’t wearing a hospital gown and that the sheet was leaving quite a lot of his upper body uncovered. Wrong, he had noticed, but he had been pre-occupied with ignoring the wound; now he noticed how pale his skin looked in the bright light.  
  
“Are you cold?” John asked when goose bumps spread over Sherlock’s chest.  
  
Sherlock swallowed. “I’m alright.”  
  
“Sherlock,” John squeezed his hand. “If you’re cold I’ll get you something to warm you up. You shouldn’t be cold.”  
  
“I’m fine, John.” Sherlock sounded resolute. “Think about it. What does the room temperature feel like to you?”  
  
“It’s cooler than it could be,” John argued, getting ready to fight Sherlock for it.  
  
“I’m in intensive care. If it were warmer my body would … Fine,” Sherlock looked decidedly less resigned than his voice sounded. “Get me a blanket.”  
  
“Why are you naked anyway,” John said, watching Sherlock’s eye brows rise very high.  
  
“Have you checked?” he grinned and lifted the sheet, his amused expression not giving away the result of his enquiry.  
  
“I assumed,” John defended himself, turning away to look for a blanket and to hide his red ears from Sherlock.  
  
When he couldn’t find anything remotely resembling a sheet or blanket, he decided to go and ask for one. “I’ll be back,” he turned and found Sherlock looking at him in a strange way. “What?”  
  
Sherlock’s nose crinkled and he shook his head. “Nothing. Sorry, the morphine is distracting me. A blanket would be nice.”  
  
John returned, having been allowed to bring Sherlock a cup of tea as well as a blanket, and a nurse was checking on him when John walked back into the room. “How long does he have to stay here?” John asked, knowing that Sherlock would try to walk about as soon as he felt strong enough, which was likely to be a long time before he actually was strong enough.  
  
“We’ll x-ray him again tonight and then see if he can be transferred to the regular ward tomorrow morning. Visiting time is only until five. You can come back tomorrow and see how things look like then.”  
  
John nodded, but then he caught Sherlock’s distinctly distraught look. “Can I stay the night?”  
  
“Hmm?” The nurse looked at him and then at Sherlock and shrugged. “Don’t think so, but you can ask Dr Lightman. You’re cleared by Mr Holmes after all.”  
  
“Alright. Thanks.” He looked at Sherlock questioningly, but Sherlock seemed satisfied with the answer the nurse had given John and had closed his eyes.  
  
Eventually they were left alone, and John put the tea down on the table and carefully spread the blanket over Sherlock. “Seems like they think they missed something.”  
  
“Could still kill me,” Sherlock said, opening his eyes again. “If it gets to my heart.”  
  
“Drink some tea, that’ll calm you down.”  
  
“I am calm,” Sherlock tried to look offended, but didn’t quite manage.  
  
“Warm you up then,” John argued, feeling it impossible to get irritated which he undoubtedly would have had they been at home.  
  
“Thank you,” Sherlock said, sounding a tiny bit petulant.  
  
John grinned and sat down, watching Sherlock drink the tea in small sips. They kept him hydrated of course, but he knew that Sherlock needed tea on a regular basis to feel content; at least it appeared that he had conditioned him to feel like that.  
  
“What’s funny?” Sherlock asked, putting the empty paper cup down.  
  
“Nothing,” John said, rubbing his eyes. “We’re just like a married couple, you and me.”  
  
Sherlock frowned as if that idea deeply disturbed him, but John knew that he understood exactly what he meant.  
  
“I bring you tea and you put me down as your closest relative.”  
  
“Getting around the paperwork was horrible.”  
  
“What did Mycroft make you do for it?”  
  
“I spent five hours shredding files. In his office.”  
  
“That’s all?”  
  
“I had to memorise them all before I destroyed them. Had to delete an entire experiment on leather soles that I had been working on for a week.”  
  
“Harsh,” John nodded.  
  
“I know, right?” Sherlock seemed truly upset until he saw John’s face and checked himself. “You see to what lengths I go to ensure that Mycroft won’t stand at the foot of my bed when I wake up.”  
  
John nodded, gravely. “The horror. The horror.”  
  
Sherlock suddenly focused his gaze on him, and John had the distinct feeling that Sherlock had meant to say something entirely different since he had walked back into the room. He also seemed quite sober.  
  
“Have you turned off the morphine?”  
  
“It distracts me.”  
  
“It helps against the pain in your chest where not so long ago three different medical doctors went treasure hunting for potentially lethal scraps of lead.”  
  
“You’re worried,” Sherlock stated, sounding slightly surprised by it all.  
  
“Oh really, you just noticed that now?” John snorted and shook his head. “You’re being unnecessarily stupid. I’m here, no one is going to come and hurt you.”  
  
“I am not worried about me,” Sherlock said, quietly.  
  
John let that one sink in and then he stretched out his arm and squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’ll go and speak to the doctor. See if they let me stay the night.”


	2. Chapter 2

They asked John if he wanted a bed, which he declined, saying he’d rather stay awake and by Sherlock’s side. Dr Lightman, who had headed the surgery, explained to him that Sherlock would not be allowed to leave the bed under any circumstances and that John was to call for a nurse if anything changed. They would be back for an x-ray in an hour and then it would be strict rest.  
  
“I’d recommend you go home and get a few hours of sleep if you want to spend another night here,” he added when John was about to leave the room.  
  
“I’ll get him some clothes. And thank you.” John nodded his good bye and then made his way straight back to Sherlock. He was sleeping again and as John stood by the bed he suddenly remembered that by all rights it should be him lying there and not Sherlock.  
  
“You probably saved my life, you giant idiot,” he said fondly and squeezed Sherlock’s hand gently.  
  
He asked the nurse to tell Sherlock that he had gone home for a while but that he would be back for the night shift. On his way to Baker Street he thought about how strange it was that he had all these liberties. If he were the performing surgeon he would make Sherlock rest as long as he was in intensive care, and only let anyone see him for a few minutes at a time. But he was incredibly thankful for being allowed to stay with him, and he wondered just how extensive this clause in Sherlock's patient file was.

Once at home he went straight into Sherlock’s room and started putting together a bag with pyjamas, underwear, socks and his dressing gown. Then he sat on the bed and just breathed in and out for a while. Being this worried about Sherlock was exhausting. It wasn’t new, but this time it hurt much worse to know that he could have died because of his own stupidity. Well, it wasn't really stupidity, he just always seemed to think of himself as invincible and it had almost cost him his life. And that was something that John did not want to dwell on.  
  
He looked at his right hand where blood had collected under his nails from when he had scraped his fingers along the wall. He hadn’t noticed any pain, but it must have hurt. It still did, now that he pressed his fingertips into the palm of his hand.  
  
John looked around the room and imagined returning here after getting the news that Sherlock hadn’t made it. He couldn’t stop himself from imagining the emptiness he would feel and his eyes filled with tears faster than he could force himself to think of something else.  
  
Married couple, indeed. He groaned and let himself fall backwards on Sherlock’s bed. He had been told to sleep and he felt too exhausted to move upstairs, so he kicked off his shoes and moved to lie properly on the bed, wondering how Sherlock would react when he woke up and found him gone. When he drifted off, he felt distinctly alone.  
  
John woke up in darkness. Only the light from the street illuminated the room enough for him to make out that he wasn’t lying in his own bed, but in Sherlock’s, and that his fingers ached from holding on to a pillow much harder than relaxed sleep should allow for. Nevertheless, he felt much better than he had earlier, and he sat up, yawned heartily and decided that it would do him good to have a shower before heading back. When he went into his room to get dressed he checked his phone, half expecting Sherlock to have bribed someone to get them his phone so he could chide John for disappearing. However, the only message he had was from Greg Lestrade, telling him that they had a good lead on the suspected shooter.  
  
It was past ten when he arrived back at the hospital, and he was informed by a new nurse that Sherlock had been examined again and that he was cleared to be moved to the recovery ward once Dr Lightman returned for his morning shift.  
  
Sherlock was awake and bored. John could tell immediately, even though Sherlock lay completely still.  
  
“Hey,” he said quietly, aware that it was still a great privilege to be allowed in the room at this time of night.  
  
“Good, you slept,” Sherlock remarked, looking pleased. Then he frowned and cocked his head. “You slept in my bed?”  
  
John blinked at him, more surprised than irritated. “Once I was in your room I couldn’t imagine going upstairs. How did you know?”  
  
Sherlock shrugged and yawned. “Never mind. You brought me clothes?”  
  
“They are going to transfer you tomorrow. You’re clear of all dangerous shrapnel.”  
  
Sherlock nodded, looking decidedly not as relieved as he should feel.  
  
“You okay?” John sat down on the chair again, his eyes fluttering over the tubes sticking out of Sherlock and then back to Sherlock’s face.  
  
“I think I ought to apologise,” Sherlock said after a moment. “I don’t want you to worry about me.”  
  
John huffed out a half laugh. “How can I not worry about you?”  
  
“That’s why I want to apologise. I don’t … see how I could … and you …”  
  
“Sherlock, don’t.”  
  
They were silent for a long while, John thinking furiously about ways to pretend to Sherlock that his worry wasn’t in the least close to obsessive while Sherlock stared at the ceiling, undoubtedly berating himself for putting himself in danger once again.  
  
“It’s just how it is. You forget, now and again, that you are human and it’s not like I haven’t done terribly stupid things myself,” John finally said, smiling at Sherlock whose face softened at his words.  
  
“True. The amount of times you let yourself be kidnapped is ridiculous!” That had them giggle for a while until Sherlock pulled a face and groaned, being reminded of his injury.  
  
“Thanks for coming back, John,” he finally said, reaching out to awkwardly pat John’s shoulder.  
  
“I imagine they would have called me sometime during the night anyway to get you under control.”  
  
“Oh, they have their ways to sedate me. Not that it helps much,” he grinned and closed his eyes.  
  
“I’m glad you’ll be okay,” John murmured after a while. “You … could have died because you wanted me safe.”  
  
“That’s not why I ran at him,” Sherlock seemed confused by John’s take on things.  
  
“No. Certainly not,” John looked away.  
  
“He would have gotten away!”  
  
“He did, Sherlock. He did get away.”  
  
“Because of you ...,” Sherlock seemed to regret saying it immediately, but he didn’t sound accusing.  
  
“Well, obviously. I had to stay.”  
  
Sherlock looked at him then, and John didn’t look away, even though this felt much too intimate for his liking and he could feel his skin prickle because he felt so uncomfortable. He and Sherlock never talked about these things. They communicated on a nonverbal level that meant they could express what they felt without having to say things out loud. This entire discussion meant that he had to admit to things verbally which he – and he presumed Sherlock, too – had always taken for granted. But suddenly they didn’t seem so obvious anymore.  
  
“How did you know I slept in your bed?” John figured that now that they were talking about uncomfortable issues, he could as well go and have Sherlock answer some questions which would undoubtedly return to him if Sherlock didn’t spill.  
  
“My cologne. It was either that or the notion that you would have used it, which is highly unlikely as it is under my bed.”  
  
“I didn’t even notice it,” John admitted.  
  
“It’s not strong, but distinctive if you know what you are looking for.”  
  
“Do you mind?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“That I slept in your bed?”  
  
Sherlock smiled and shook his head. “Can’t say that I do,” he finally admitted, growing more serious again. “When can I come home?” he asked after a moment of silence.  
  
“Depends on how quickly you heal,” John answered, feeling distinctly annoyed by the light that was a little too bright for comfort and which would remain switched on during the night. There was no half light to hide in, no shadow to turn to, no light to switch off to make talking less uncomfortable.  
  
Sherlock made a face and grabbed John’s right hand, placing it above the wound. For a second John wondered whether Sherlock had lost his mind or whether he was trying to make his injury worse for some reason, but then Sherlock placed his own much larger hand over his and looked at him, his eyes bright. “Heal me,” he whispered.  
  
John didn’t know what to say, or what to think, really, and he noticed he forgot how to breathe for a moment because when he inhaled again it was in a desperate sob and then there were tears, just for a moment, and his face was pressed against Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock's left hand, the one with the infusion needle breaching Sherlock’s skin, came to rest on the back of his head for a second. And then the moment was over and John could breathe again and his heart felt much lighter than it had before that and he sat up straight, and wiped his face with his left and exhaled slowly. He could hear the machines beeping more loudly, more prominently now. He felt like he had not been properly awake since he had gotten up from Sherlock’s bed and now he finally was awake.  
  
“Sorry,” he murmured, looking at Sherlock’s chest and not his face and hoping that nobody would check on Sherlock anytime soon.  
  
Just then the door opened and the nurse stuck her head inside. “Everything alright in here?” she asked and Sherlock nodded while John looked away.  
  
“It’s just that the heart rate monitor showed some changes and I wanted to make sure that everything is alright.”  
  
John willed her to leave, and it took him a few seconds to process what she had just said. When he looked at Sherlock’s face he could see that his cheeks had much more colour than just moments before.  
  
The nurse simply told him to lie still and to take it easy and was gone again, and John became very aware of the fact that Sherlock’s hand still covered his, and that he couldn’t remove his own without hurting Sherlock.  
  
“Right,” he finally said.  
  
“It was a guess,” Sherlock said, very quietly, but obviously equally determined to get things out before they returned to normal.  
  
“What was? You never guess.”  
  
“The bed. My bed. I had some proof, but not nearly enough to support the fact.”  
  
“Sherlock?”  
  
“I need you,” Sherlock admitted, looking very young and very serious. “I couldn’t let you go first. What if he had shot you? You are shorter than me and in close confrontation you would have been hit higher in the chest than I was and your heart ….”  
  
His hand pressed down gently on John’s and John wanted to punch him for hurting himself like this, because it must have hurt.  
  
“You are such an idiot,” John answered, sounding surprisingly calm after Sherlock’s declaration. “Have you ever, even for a second, thought about the possibility that maybe, just maybe, I need you, too?”  
  
“A minute ago, yes,” Sherlock cleared his throat nervously.  
  
John tried very hard to ignore the fact that Sherlock’s realisation had triggered an alarm in the nurses’ office because his heart rate had sped up so much. “And yet you already fantasised about me sleeping in your bed?”  
  
Sherlock grew remarkably red for someone who had lost a lot of blood just a day ago, and John felt his own face burn when he realised that his supposed joke had hit closer to home than he had actually intended. “Jesus, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock lifted his hand and freed John’s, and John found himself quite at a loss of what to do or say. Instead of pulling his hand away he used his left to return Sherlock’s hand to where it had lain before. “I’m here,” he said, quietly, sneaking a look at the screen of Sherlock’s heart rate monitor. “I’m not going anywhere.”  
  
He smiled when the beeping sped up just a tiny bit.  
  
“That’s unfair,” Sherlock said, eyebrows drawn close together in an attempt to look offended.  
  
John smiled and lifted his hand, relieved to find that Sherlock let him. Then he turned it so Sherlock’s index finger lay over his pulse point on his wrist. Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat that clearly embarrassed him, but which made John smile widely.  
  
“Ask me,” John offered, trying his best to keep his cool in all of this, though he guessed his mini-breakdown had already told Sherlock everything he needed to know.  
  
Sherlock licked his lips, inhaled and exhaled deeply, before he looked John straight in the eye.  
  
“Would you consider sleeping in my bed again?” he asked, and John knew that what he heard from the monitor was reflected in what Sherlock felt in his arm.  
  
“Possibly,” he said, knowing that Sherlock could read the plain truth in his face.  
  
“Good. I mean,” Sherlock winced. “Would you consider sleeping in my bed if I was in it as well?”  
  
John grinned and made a face that betrayed the mental image which suddenly flashed before him. He sniffed.  
  
“Have you ever considered …,” Sherlock licked his lips again and John’s eyes were ultimately drawn to his mouth, “waking up in my bed if I was there as well?”  
  
“I haven’t thought about that, yet,” John answered, imagining opening his eyes in the morning to find Sherlock next to him. It didn’t seem all that strange an idea.  
  
“Have you ever …,” but Sherlock couldn’t finish his sentence because John leaned over and sealed his lips with a kiss.  
  
A moment later, Sherlock opened his eyes again and smiled. “Ah, clearly you have.”  
  
“What’s changed, Sherlock?” John wondered when exactly he had started to feel so much more than just friendship towards the man currently stroking his thumb across the back of his hand as if he had always done it.  
  
“Perception? You said it yourself. We’ve been living like a married couple for a long time.”  
  
“Yes, but I didn’t consider ….”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“So what now?”  
  
“Now I suggest you sleep some more so you’re fit to entertain me tomorrow.”  
  
John shook his head with a grin. “Do you think I could sleep now? Like this? While this is happening?” He looked down on their intertwined hands.  
  
“Are you going to?”  
  
“Hmm?” John wasn’t quite sure what Sherlock was referring to, but he felt safe with any question he might ask now.  
  
“Sleep in my bed. With me in it.”  
  
“If you want me to,” John answered, wondering how many nights he would spend in that bed by himself before Sherlock was allowed to come home.  
  
Sherlock nodded, and then sighed long and deeply, and closed his eyes.  
  
John moved the chair a bit closer to the bed and propped his arms on the mattress next to Sherlock’s head and began to tell him stories of terrible patients he had had to endure during his time before Afghanistan. Every now and again Sherlock would snort or scowl or voice his interest in truly absurd cases, but eventually they both fell asleep, and when John woke up he found his face covered in dark curls. Sherlock was still asleep, his face very close to his own. He could feel small puffs of breath against his chin and he had to smile, wondering if this was the first of many morning like this to come. Eventually he got up to use the bathroom and to get some coffee for breakfast.  
  
When he returned, Sherlock was awake and sitting up. He looked pale and very thin in the bright light. John tried to remember when Sherlock had last eaten and decided that as soon as he was allowed, he would start putting food into Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes were wide when he met his own, and John smiled, despite his worries about Sherlock’s general state of health.  
  
And Sherlock immediately gained some colour and looked away, a dimple appearing on his cheek as he tried to suppress a smile.  
  
Half an hour later Sherlock lay in a hospital bed without any monitors, and except for an infusion, he was cleared of any other equipment.

“You worried,” John noted as he sat down on the bed instead of the chair next to it. Sherlock pretended to not know at all what he could possibly mean.  
  
“It wasn’t the morphine. It wasn’t a fever dream. I will most definitely buy us a dog.”  
  
The look on Sherlock’s face was priceless and it took John five minutes to stop laughing. “Sorry,” he grinned and leaned down to press a small kiss to Sherlock’s lips.  
  
“Is is strange for you?” Sherlock asked once John had straightened up again, “because it doesn’t feel strange to me.”  
  
John thought about that for a moment and then he imagined himself and Sherlock on Sherlock’s bed, several books strewn around them, Sherlock’s toes pushing at the bedding while he complained about John’s latest blog entry and he smiled, feeling distinctly happy. “No. Funnily enough, it doesn’t feel strange at all.  
  
“You get the right side of the bed,” Sherlock decided then, and John felt reminded of his childhood when Harry generously told him that he could play with the broken doll while she was hugging the new one with the sassy dress.  
  
“What did you do to the right side of your bed?” John asked, wondering if he had been too tired to miss a large hole in the bed when he had slept on it. “And anyway, I do think I will sleep on top of you as soon as your chest can take it.”  
  
Sherlock coughed and turned red again and suddenly John wished very much that Sherlock would heal quickly so he could find out what was wrong with the right side of his bed and whether he could trick Sherlock into sleeping on that side anyway.  
  
His phone chimed and he exhaled loudly when he got up to read the message. The culprit had been arrested and had admitted shooting at Sherlock. He had been on the run after breaking out of an Irish prison a few weeks ago and was on his way back with an additional three years to his sentence.  
  
“They got him,” was all he said, and Sherlock nodded, his fingers drumming against the mattress where John had sat just a minute earlier.  
  
“Can you kiss me again?” Sherlock finally said, his expression carefully guarded.  
  
“Only because you got to brush your teeth earlier,” John grinned and gently took Sherlock’s face between his hands and leaned down. The kiss was still chaste, still a kiss that could mean friendship, but when Sherlock’s arms wrapped around John’s torso and he tugged until John moved onto the bed properly, it became something else entirely.  
  
It took them a bit of shifting and shoving but eventually Sherlock lay in John’s arms and they fit very nicely together like this, even though John knew that Sherlock was in more pain like this than he would be if he were alone, but Sherlock didn’t let him leave.  
  
They both fell asleep again and when John woke up, Sherlock’s body was warm against his and he began looking forward to home with a fierce longing.  
  
When Sherlock woke up, grunting impatiently at the pain in his torso, John kissed the top of his head and smiled. “What is on the right side of your bed?”  
  
Sherlock went still for a moment and then squeezed John’s arm. “That’s where I sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second chapter of the birthday fic for Verity Burns. It appears that I can only write fluff these days XD
> 
> Big hugs to you, Verity!! xxx


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